The black sedan crept up the Lancaster estate's serpentine driveway like a hearse en route to its final stop. Rain tapped against the windshield in a slow, steady rhythm, as if mourning something that hadn't died yet—but was about to.
Sienna Nan leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching the towering manor rise through the mist like a ghost from her past. The reflection that stared back at her was familiar and cruel: raven-dark eyes, a stubborn chin—and the birthmark. A raw slash of crimson bloomed across her left cheekbone like spilled wine. The mark her family called cursed. The mark that had gotten her exiled.
Twelve years ago, they'd shipped her off like bad karma in a cardboard box. Now they were dragging her back like some kind of—what? Compensation? Collateral?
No. Bait.
"Remember your place," her mother snapped from the front seat without turning around. Li Wan's tone was smooth as silk and twice as cold. "You're here to marry their dying son, not to embarrass us further."
Sienna's fingers curled around the silver hairpin tucked into her sleeve, its sharp tip brushing her wrist like a promise.
"Funny," she murmured. "I thought I was here to sweeten a cursed bloodline."
The car rolled to a stop in front of the estate's ornate gates—wrought iron twisted into the shape of ivy and wolves. An elderly butler with all the warmth of a tombstone opened the door without a word.
As they passed through marbled courtyards and rain-slicked gardens, servants peeked from behind silk curtains, whispering behind manicured hands.
The cursed Nan girl had returned.
Sienna kept her chin lifted, her heels clicking defiantly against the imported stone. If they wanted a show, she'd give them one.
The grand parlor was all gold trim and calculated opulence. Velvet drapes. Oil portraits of sour-faced ancestors. And in the center of it all sat the matriarch—Margot Lancaster—like a queen on her throne, her cane planted between them like a sword.
"So," the old woman said coolly. "You've finally shown your face. God knows why you didn't bother to cover that... thing."
Sienna smiled, slow and dangerous.
"If my face disturbs you, Matriarch," she said, "you probably shouldn't have begged the Nan family to send it."
Margot's jaw tightened, knuckles blanching around her ivory cane. She inhaled sharply—but before her tongue could whip into motion, a dry, hacking cough interrupted.
A figure shifted in the shadows behind the velvet curtain.
From the gloom emerged Silas Lancaster.
He leaned against the doorframe like a ghost made of silk and secrets—tall, pale, and sharp enough to bleed. His cheekbones were too beautiful for someone so sick, and his collarbone peeked out from a half-buttoned black shirt like he hadn't bothered finishing dressing—or hadn't had the strength.
He looked like a prince carved from bone.
And he was staring at her like she was the reaper sent to collect.
"Welcome home," Silas said, voice rasping like velvet over broken glass.
Then, with a sardonic curl of his bloodless lips—
"Bride."